


Lamplight

by Hope_J



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:21:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27889693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope_J/pseuds/Hope_J
Summary: Tommy grabs his phone, hesitating before he remembers who he is calling, and taps Tubbo's contact.Or,Tommy has had a rough day at college, so he calls his best friend.Disclaimer: This is not in any way meant to represent how the people in question act in real life. This is merely a work of fiction, written in appreciation of their dynamic (and how their videos cheer me up). Everything is completely platonic.
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit
Comments: 4
Kudos: 108





	Lamplight

**Author's Note:**

> Am I self-projecting? Yes. But I posted it anyway because I thought maybe a few people out there who are worried may find some comfort reading these sorts of things. 
> 
> Also, it's rated teen just because there's one swear word near the end lol.

Tommy is mildly dehydrated.

He doesn’t know what he has been doing for the past three hours, although he knows he’s done nothing productive. After he’d returned home from college and showered, he’d collapsed onto his bed, eyes glued to his phone screen, mindlessly scrolling through Instagram and Twitter. He supposes he should get a glass of water, but he doesn’t find the strength in him to move. 

Something odd happened at college that day. A group of kids in his grade had insulted him to his face, calling the videos he made immature and promotional towards a cult of misbehaviour. Tommy is used to comments like these - hell, this wasn’t even the worst he’d experienced. Yet, one of them uttered a sentence that still rang in his head, hours later. 

_“What does it feel like to know that whatever you have - whatever you get right now, will all fade away in a couple of years?”_

Perhaps not one sentence, but a few. 

_“Sooner or later, people would grow up, realise that Tommyinnit isn’t worth watching-”_

Tommy sits up. His head is spinning. 

_“-and then you’ll be gone, buried under the blankets of YouTube algorithms, forgotten by the next generation, wishing you’d chosen a different job-”_

He stands up, taking a tentative step towards his room door. His phone lies on his bed, abandoned in lieu of getting water. It switched off on him - the battery had run out. 

_“-a job that, maybe, doesn’t put your self-worth in the opinion of thousands of faceless people.”_

He manages to return to his room, shutting the door decisively behind him. He drinks the water, enjoying the relief it provides to his slightly-parched throat. Unfortunately, as the effects of dehydration ebb away, it amplifies the anxiety that has been gnawing at the back of his head. 

_“Aren’t you afraid, Tommyinnit?”_

With his phone dead, there are no more distractions. Tommy is left alone with his thoughts, and the prospect is terrifying. His PC lies metres away in the streaming room, but at the moment, Tommy is too paralysed to think about using it as a distraction. It will only make all of this _real_. 

Tommy doesn’t usually question his passion. He loves making videos, loves streaming, which is why he puts so much effort into it. Although his old teachers may beg to differ, he’d argue that he works harder than an average kid his age. Yet, there are times when he wonders if putting hours, no, _days_ into YouTube is worth it. The entertainment industry is cruel like this - it doesn’t reward hard work, but creativity. And there is a limit to how creative one can be. 

He sinks to the floor and stares at the sockets underneath his desk. The wires there are a mess, extending in different directions, making it almost impossible to tell which wire connects to what from afar. He knows that if he moved closer, if he touched the wires, he would be able to tell. If he could weigh his decisions by tracing wires, life would be so, _so_ much simpler. 

Without moving his bottom, he stretches out his hand and reaches for his phone on his bed, plugging it in. There is a noticeable silence in his room - usually, he’d blast music or podcasts, or his brain would be fully occupied with whatever he was looking at. Otherwise, his best friend’s voice would be ringing out from the crappy speaker in his phone when he was too lazy to take out his headphones, and even when Tubbo stopped talking, there was still the sound of his keyboard, and the background noise when Tubbo shuffled and breathed. 

He smiles fondly when thinking of those calls, and then berates himself immediately after that for being sappy, although there is no one in the room to see it. Those calls brought him through the unusually silent nights of quarantine, when the world felt like it’d stopped turning, when Tommy had fed his passion like throwing sticks into an open fire, kindling it, growing it. He remembers on a particularly late night, when Tommy had closed his eyes and could almost imagine that Tubbo was next to him, just a centimetre away, typing away at his keyboard. When he opened them again, he was shocked by the utter disappointment he felt when he realised that that was not, in fact, a reality. 

Tommy figures that a call like this would probably do him good, now. 

His phone emits a soft ‘ping’ as it gains enough power to turn back on. Tommy grabs his phone, hesitating before he remembers who he is calling, and taps Tubbo’s contact. 

As he waits for his friend to pick up, he wonders whether his friend is streaming. If he is, Tommy doesn’t know whether he has the energy to deal with being, well, _him_ now. 

“Hello?”

“Hi. Are you streaming right now?”

“Yes. Are you coming on later?”

Tommy tries his best to be nonchalant. 

“Eh, maybe.”

He hangs up. 

It only takes fifteen minutes. In those fifteen minutes, Tommy manages to grab some cookies, wraps himself in his blanket on his bed and tries to hold himself together. He’s surrounded with so much warmth that he’s starting to sweat, but he decides that it is better to be warm than cold. 

It only takes fifteen minutes before his phone is ringing again. 

“You alright, man?” says Tubbo over the phone. There’s a telltale crunch, indicating that Tubbo is eating. 

Tommy struggles to find an excuse for his unordinary behaviour. 

“Y-yeah. I just wanted to tell you about something my mother told me today. But on second thought,” he swallows, “It’s not funny enough to be said on your stream. I’d probably get Wilbur-soot-ed by your chat for saying it.”

“Mmhmm,” Tubbo replies, but there is a hint of skepticism in his tone, as if he doesn’t believe Tommy, “so what did your mother tell you?”

“She told me if I continue cursing,” Tommy bluffs, “I’d have to pay her a pound for every single time I curse. This, Tubbo, is why I need the primes.”

Tubbo chuckles softly. There’s a quiet pause, as if both of them are waiting for the other to speak up first. It would be awkward, but Tommy thinks of the sheer amount of time he has spent with this person on a call, that he doesn’t even feel the slightest bit of discomfort. 

“So, how was your day, Tubbo?” Tommy asks, leaning against his bed frame and relaxing. 

“It was… alright,” Tubbo gives a surprisingly concise answer, “I should ask the same about you. Are you really okay, Tommy?”

“This is the second time you’ve asked, of course-”

“You haven’t said a single word about college today, and you _always_ go on about it when we call on Wednesdays.”

Tommy groans. Of course Tubbo would notice. Tubbo always notices.

“Of course,” his friend continues, his tone slightly gentler now, “if you don’t want to talk about it, it’s cool. I’ll just tell you about the thing I learnt about pastry earlier-”

“You’re right - uh - something did happen at college today.”

Tubbo falls silent. Tommy takes a deep breath before continuing. 

“You ever wondered how dangerous it is to be a YouTuber?”

Tubbo hums. 

“Someone in college reminded me of it, today,” Tommy continued, “that the job isn’t stable, that some people’s careers just fall to shit after a few years…”

“It _is_ a highly ambitious career, yes.” Tubbo replies. 

“I wonder whether,” Tommy’s hands are shaking, “being a tryhard at college would be better than being a tryhard at… whatever _this_ is.”

“Tommy, you like making videos, yeah?”

“I - of course, Tubbo-”

“Then what’s the problem?” There’s a rustling sound as if Tubbo is rooting around in his chip bag. 

“What’s the problem? The problem is _money_ , Tubbo, the _future-_ ”

“There are many jobs that are unstable Tommy,” Tubbo says, “and many jobs that aren’t. It all boils down to whether we are passionate about it, whether at the end of the day, we feel like hey, we’ve done something good with our life.”

“Well-”

“And it’s not like you’re not _good_ at whatever you’re doing right now.” Tubbo interrupts, “You’re really, _really_ talented at entertaining Tommy, and it’s not like you’re bound to YouTube by some kind of contract. You could always try something else, like in the film industry. Besides, it’s not like a career in YouTube is anywhere as dangerous as starting a business…”

“Since when have you been this wise, Tubbo?” Tommy cannot help but say. He is certain that he has an incredibly fond smile stretched across his face, and he thanks the heavens that he isn’t in a video call with his friend. 

“Mm - no, you’re just dumb.” Tubbo says cheekily, although there is no bite in that insult. Tommy hears the sound of plastic crinkling, and then the crunching sounds of his best friend obnoxiously eating his chips, not bothering to move his head away from his microphone. 

“Y’know,” Tommy turns to look out of his window, “it’s really dark outside.”

“Because it’s… night?” Tubbo deadpans. 

“It’s really dark,” Tommy continues, ignoring the jab, “but there’s this one neighbour who puts fuckin’ neon lights at his window all the time.”

“Like, 24/7?”

“Yeah.”

“Holy shit, how does he pay for his electricity bills?”

“No idea-”

“What do the signs even _say_?” Tubbo asks, incredulous. 

“I think,” Tommy squints to make out the lettering, and starts to laugh when he realises what it is, “I think it’s - it’s a bible verse.”

Both of them dissolve into laughter. Tommy doesn’t know why he’s laughing, doesn’t know why he’s telling Tubbo about the scenery outside his window, but his chest is light and he’s never felt happier. 

**Author's Note:**

> Remember to call your friends if you're feeling sad. Thank you so much for reading :)


End file.
